


Release

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Wilson x Fisk 4 part story surrounding their difficult relationship & what lies underneath the professionalism they keep so often. Explicit themes present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it occurs, there is no doubt in James’ mind that it will be both the the beginning & the end of their personal tryst. Wilson is no fool, he seeks no counsel for the things he has done, nor does he seek anything other than affirmation that this is desired or at the very least allowed by both parties. James’s heart pounds apologetically under the weight of Wilson’s gaze, half lidded eyes glazed over with sleep deprivation & the need for some kind of release. Hour’s have passed since they last spoke, most spent with Wilson’s eye’s focused on the never ending neon lights of Hell’s Kitchen & James’s on Wilson’s clenched knuckles, fingernails so obviously harming the soft underbelly of his palms tender flesh. He wishes to reach out & unclench each stiffened knuckles until the skin is offered some reprieve from the pressure of frustration.

Wilson has ripped his unfocused gaze from the blurring cityscape & refocused it upon James’. It’s disconcerting, not because of the intensity but the implication he see’s behind his eyes. The desperation that normally stays so warily buried beneath walls & cement sarcophagi. He swallows, noticeably, there is no point in hiding his confusion. He NOT emasculated by Wilson but at times he is all but castrated before him, all thoughts, opinions & decisions are put before him,known by him alone. There are no lies between them. They are friends but they are more than that, so Wilson has said. The silhouetted male’s inability to speak of what he desires only impresses the situations importance on Wesley more so, his employers, no his friend’s eye’s fashionably empty & accented with dark circles of cursed thoughts & despair over the current week’s complications.

“ I would not … ask this of you … if I thought you would find offense but, … , “ he trails off, lips thinned again in thought, his now dilated pupils hidden behind harshly closed eyelids, capillaries all but busted as they spider outwards from his darkened eyelashes. The dark follicles cast a deep shadow tinted in a sickly bright green gifted to by the night life. “ I need something that… could perhaps be vaguely perverse, if one were of that mind… “

 

The moment the words vaguely perverse find their way into existence, James has already removed his spectacles, allowing himself ample time to imagine what utterance might lay next. He has acted out a plethora of dis pleasurable things for his friend, both personally and professionally alike, but each time the moment’s before his ‘ orders ‘ are given he finds himself uneasily caught between anxiety and excitement. The energy traveling through him almost too sickly sweet to truly delight in.

“ Understood … I am fully aware of my rights to deny you if I find myself wary. “

D E N Y ? He has never told Wilson no, NEVER denied him anything, from murder to tea, he is his friend, his companion, his most loyal employee.

“ Wesley, I am a strong man, of power & of wealth, but every man, comes to a time in his life when he needs something… else. Something more primal, a release. “

The implications come not from the words Wilson has so eloquently spoken but the slowly released fists, that have come to lay open upon his thighs, fingers still stiff with some unspoken - no unresolved - tension, but less drowned in pain & suffering. More grounded in the here & now. The beautiful bespoke suit he wears is no worse for wear, the material holds up exquisitely against the force of nature that calls itself Wilson. The most obvious tell is the way his friend shifts, discomfort obvious, the source of which is rapidly becoming obvious as Wesley’s eyes adjust to the darker part of the car’s dimly lit interior.

“ I see. “

And he does, fingers cautiously branching outwards towards the other’s pale & over sized extremities. They are warm, and when he lifts them from their place upon his employers thighs, the worry shows through on the material, worn thin from his constant picking. It is much like his father’s cuff links, a place that he feels the need to remind himself of, whether it be him trying to remember his humanity OR bury it, means nothing to James. He was here to help, not to provoke. His knees hit the floorboard first, a gentle thought is given towards his own suit but is easily discarded as Wilson’s hands find their way on to his shoulders and neck, no ounce of passion or desire lost on him. To say Fisk is not a CARING lover would be to lie but to consider him a healthy lover is something to be discovered. James licks his lips nervously, the dryness of his throat suddenly too prevalent to think with any sort of professionalism. This is different than killing, that is easy, it is something he can disconnect from, this is something so much deeper. Of course the fear of being hurt by the hulking beast seated above him is always somewhat prevalent too.

“ Wesley, “ He breathes out, as if the name makes up the chemicals allowing him to come to life. It’s very moving, thinks James. “ You are not required to do this. “

When has requirement sent him into any sense of action? If anything, ORDERS create a great deal of inaction in his attitude, dividing his attention between indignant disbelief & the desire to be efficient no matter the reason. The grip on his neck is moving slowly into the nape of his hair. Shivers sending involuntary spasms into his spine, the sheer quiet of the car makes their fairly abnormal breathing patterns sound like shattering glass in the darkness. There is a moment where he’s unsure of whether they are both completely aware of the IMMENSE repercussions of this — of what it could meant for their evolving relationship. This is NEW to them both, friendship or not, professional or not. James is not INVINCIBLE to Wilson’s wrath when provoked. Gentle, long fingers briefly slide upwards, warily, nervously until the waistband is found and he can make gentle work of the various clasps. The hand on his neck clenches and he freezes, a choked noise of surprise escapes his otherwise thinned lips, lost in concentration previously.

“ is this - did i… are you okay? did i — did i misunderstand, sir. “

 

This release is critical. Wilson’s large, powerful fingers ease up just enough to let James’ breathe for a moment, long enough for him to put the adrenaline fear has given him back into it’s place. Being this close and this submissive to his employer is a first. A tug of war between how much he will give & how much Wilson will actively take from him. There’s a harsh intake of breathe above him that moves his own groin to twinge with something other than pure biological function. It’s something that has only crossed his mind in half sleep & drunken stupors, spent in hospitals under high doses of morphine. The delight of something so dark & wicked between them. They are friends, aren’t they? Or more?

“ I think, I miscalculated your devotion, Wesley. This is — more than enough for now, I feel better. “

He tries to remove himself from Wilson’s limbs, fingers still buried in his previously sculpted hair. The collar of his shirt is worse for wear thanks to the man before him but he pushes the thought away aware that Wilson will have a replacement in his bedroom come morning. The first time has become something less than love but more than nothing. There is no label or title in which James can derive an appropriate prose for their activities. His only thought decidedly more bland. His proclivities are in question & for the first time in a long time James finds himself openly searching Wilson’s face for an answer, his fingers still tucked just barely into the man’s trousers. Wilson does not look away but instead pulls him closer, clings to him in a broken way that James knows only he is privy to.

“ stay with me? “   
“ of course sir. “


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson forced Wesley to talk about their problem.

_**The second time it occurs** _ Wesley is all jealousy & rage, an unbecoming & yet all consuming state of being. There’s someone **CLOSE**  to him ,  _ too _  close and he  ** does **  not appreciate the way Fisk’s eyes linger. A woman, he thinks, tall, slender, & _ funny _ . He can hear their  _genuine_  laughter through the wall, their blurry silhouettes mock him through the frosted glass windows that serve as both decoration and  _gates_  of isolation depending on which side you are  ** left **  to admire.  [He](http://x)  watches from the side of isolation,  ~~forgotten~~ left on the side that serves to cut him off. A deep rooted frustration wells up at the thought — it is  _he_  that should sit at Fisk’s right hand - making him laugh - not  ** this **  new person. A gun dealer. She is  **beneath**  him, Wesley muses; unrefined & horribly unprepared to deal with the finer side of his employer. The moment the door opens, however, a wicked smile is put in place of his frown & fingers resume their cool motion of writing out both death threats & orders alike. **_One thing he wishes would extend to Fisk’s current fling_ . **

So perhaps fling is _too_  bold a word. They are **friends**  not lovers and his own immense distaste for the girl is built on the smoldering foundation of his own ~~apparently~~ unrequited emotions. Fisk has all but **severed** their relationship since the last time they _touched_  — too dangerous, he wheezes in the small voice that Wesley has come to recognize as a _warning_. It comes before the storms, before the wicked **breaking** point, but after the hours spent tending to Fisk’s emotional _desire_  of release. Fisk knows it too - that he is being unfair, Wesley thinks. Fisk’s over sized extremities wring together in thought as he avoids his assistant’s eyes. Neither will push the matter, Fisk out of discomfort & Wesley out of respect for his friend. As well as his own personal brand of professionalism and pride. Instead he spends the next few car rides petulantly attempting to avoid his employers probing questions about his silence and answering only things that _need_  his attention with as few words as possible. If his employer seeks to be childish in his affections — taking them as soon as they are given, starving Wesley like a stray dog for his attentions, then Wesley will stop playing altogether. 

The building is decrepit and dirty when viewed from the outside, a facade for the immaculate corporation running inside it, _guns, weapons,_  and drugs. It’s all there, tied up into one beautiful money making endeavor. The workers are largely ignorant to the world surrounding them, satisfied to ignore the going’s on of the factory and focus specifically on their task at hand. They are _rewarded_  well enough for their silence and their efforts, _good enough_   _for them at least_. His mobile slips deftly into his trouser pocket, the vibrations continuing but he pays no heed to such annoyances. They **can**  wait. Now is the time for his employer – even though currently he still ignoring him as best he can.

Fisk walks from behind the frosted glass and passes Wesley, all but ignoring his presence - Wesley follows. It is an undeniable fact that this is habitual; a motion he follows without complaint or thought. His eyes stay down but alert, ignoring everything that is _**not**_  Fisk. Whispers catch his ears but they are _nothing_  worth thinking of, workers speaking in low tones, amusing themselves on break, or in between jobs, nothing worth noting. It’s the buzzing sound that seems to follow above from the flickering ceiling lights the that causes him enough distraction to miss the swift  _motion_ of Fisk’s palms against his jacket’s lapels, pressing him effortlessly against the cement wall. Claustrophobia is easily felt within the confines of the hallway’s labyrinth and Wesley has long since lost count of how many turns they have taken, or how deeply they have traveled inside. The action has caught him off guard, his foot slips; his body slipping down below Fisk’s line of sight. The _hulking_  mass before him seem’s so much greater from this angle. As if **everything**  is coming down on him in the same few seconds. Fisk’s figure is shadowed by the flickering florescent lights that cause Wesley’s glasses to glare and reflect his own  _frightened_  pupils back at him. Grey walls, cold against his back, unforgiving & unrelenting press against him until he exhales, his vision blackening around the edges momentarily.

                                      ❛  Explain yourself. ❜ Fisk spits between gritted teeth.

Wesley swallows out of confusion and pure adrenaline, his _heart_  hasn’t stopped pumping uncontrollably yet and the only person he has  _lacked_  the foresight to watch is currently holding him up by his shirt. Fistfuls of cloth settled in between Fisk’s fingers, wrinkles no doubt becoming permanent, much like the steady expression of _betrayal_  that Wesley knows must show through his own expression. Shallow breathing keeps him from fainting, something he deems himself proud of. It’s not everyday your entire world is turned upside down from protecting someone to _needing_  protection from them. **~~or does he~~**. He _attempts_  to logic his way through this. Surely _Fisk_  doesn’t want to **MURDER**  him, or _bash_  his head in — that thought alone gives him a moment to regain some of his composure. They _are_  alone, he knows this much. The lights are in terrible shape, the walls dirtied from disuse and lack of ventilation, voices no longer heard among the silence that seems to trap them in this moment. A semi-confident smirk lifts his features, eyebrow quirked as practiced as he tries in vain to regain his footing. An over bearing Fisk all but straddling him in this god forsaken place.

                                   ❛ I don’t know what you’re talking about — _Sir_. ❜

❛ You don’t kn — **_?_**  ❜ Fisk wheezes as though Wesley has turned his mother over to the devil himself. As if _he_  is lying to Fisk’s face about something _terrible._  His grip tightens before releasing, just barely, once more. The way he mulls the words over in his mind tells Wesley perhaps he’s misunderstood something between them, lacked the comprehension necessary to demystify this crisis. ❛ You _are_  acting **like**  a _child_ , one who has been **scolded**  — I am _not_  blind to you, Wesley. ❜ The explanation sounds more painful than anything a mere weapon might inflict upon him. This is _personal_  & now Wesley understands, the situation falling into step with what he _knows_  & what he _believes_  Fisk wishes to know. He inwardly disagrees with Fisk’s blindness — he find’s him QUITE blind to him these days.

                          ❛ I haven’t any qualms with you, Sir. Please let me g—— ❜

A weak pitiful explanation for his actions, devoid of any true vindication that might bring either of them satisfaction. Wesley raises his hands as he speaks to cover Fisk’s own, which are still manhandling his bespoke suit with ill intent. His last words are choked off by Fisk sliding him upwards, _violently_  but not **unkindly** , until he is able to have his footing, eye level with his employer once more, yet still small in comparison. Height is no good in the eyes of _strength_. 

     ❛ You… _are_   **testing**  my patience, _James_. ❜

The adrenaline slackens as his feet steady. He breathes in, closing his eyes, attempting to dream up a lie, or excuse, _anything_  to avoid this confrontation. Ironic that he _had_  wanted Fisk to notice his unsettled demeanor, to question his frustrations, to _magically_  assume responsibility for all Wesley’s problems ~~and then perhaps take him to dinner~~. _How silly that all sounds now_ , with Fisk inches from his face, colored purple with rage and frustration — at Wesley ** _._**  How very unfair and frightening. He takes in a breathe, opens his eyes only to see the black of Fisk’s pupils bursting as they threaten to envelope his entire iris. Wesley is moved by the experience, a baptism by fire. A chill rides the curve of his spine, and the spasms that shake his hands do not go unnoticed. A curled lip denotes Fisk’s attention to detail, he does not slacken his hold, shoving him instead against the wall once more, harder. 

                                     ❛ I ask only for honesty — you _**were**_  once _loyal_  to me. ❜

That alone stirs the unsettled violence that Wesley has been nursing for the past weeks, bottled up so tightly that he is sure he will implode from the force of it. His body moves in a singular thrust fighting to throw the Kingpin backwards, as if turning the tables would help any of _this_. 

❛ Let — Go— of me ** _!_** How _dare_ you **IMPLY** i would ever be _disloyal_ **!** I would **KILL** for you — in fact I would _[DIE](https://www.tumblr.com/edit/X)_ for you   


He **barely**  budges but Fisks eye’s flash, crinkling crow’s feet appear in the edges of his eyelids. A laugh escapes him at the sight of _Wesley_  struggling in this _weak_  attempt at fighting back. The scene would confuse anyone who knew them — Fisk threatening Wesley and Wesley doing anything but lying down before his ~~master~~  employer wishes - preposterous. Wesley can barely see through the glaring red that seems to paint his vision. The idea of disloyalty strikes Wesley like burning lightening spidering outward. It spurs his slow burning rage into motion.

 & **I** \- **I**  tried to _**please**_  you & ~~you **BARELY**  even look at me.~~ Just fuck you.❜   


He stops, silence falling between them, a blanket of darkness that neither is willing lift yet. Fisk stares down, a gentleness overtaking the glint of _anger_  that seemed so prominent moments ago and Wesley is beyond apologies. Their hands still touch. Fisk’s upon Wesley’s person, and Wesley on top of his own. There’s a clenching motion when Wesley loses his nerve and looks away, finds a place somewhere off to the left in between the dirty wall and the hospital like tiling that decorates the floor. Fisk closes the inches between them, every single molecule threatens to expand until bursting as the fingers that dig into his suit release — a cautious upwards movement extends until they rest behind Wesley’s _fragile_  neck. His muscles contract defensively, without pretense. Fisk has killed men for less and Wesley has encouraged it at times. Neither fact gives him a sense relief — but Fisk’s head is cradled in his shoulder unexpectedly, lips warming the side of his neck, teeth nipping at the hollow. 

                                   ❛ Sir — ❜ Wesley stammers, a fear welling upwards overtaking whatever _other_  feelings might be surfacing. A calm voice quells him from it’s place along his jawline, ❛ I _understand_  now. You’re dilemma. You felt **uncredited** \- unappreciated - _replaced_  by a woman perhaps? Let me … _exhibit_  my apologies for my **inexcusable**  ignorance of this.. situation. ❜   


The hands that have bruised him out of anger _are_  now dragging themselves down his torso, pouring their ministrations into gentle _if not_  determined exploration of Wesley’s physique. A choked groan breaks out between his chapped lips and he does his best to lick them before he completely loses himself. The _once_  entrapping grasp of Fisk is now all that’s holding his weak legs upright. A gentle nudge turns his head upwards, exposing his neck, something that Fisk, no doubt, had intended upon. His mouth sucks precious bruises along Wesley’s throat, his right hand unclasping the buttons that keep his trousers held firmly in place. Between garters and under shirts the warm digits slide beneath every layer of cloth, palming the cock sheathed there. 

His mind is _on_  fire with worship, speaking tongues that he can’t be sure _are_  any of the languages he **actually**  knows. Wesley’s hands seek out the back of Fisk’s neck and head, on autopilot, pressing Fisk into his throat & collar bone with no regard for his already battered shirt collar. At the rate Fisk is annihilating him, he _knows_  the buttons are somewhere on the floor. He can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart and Fisk’s labored breathing, no _doubt_  as he is as hard as Wesley is becoming. There’s something about fear and hate and fucking that makes you  _inebriated_  on emotion. His clothes are still _on_  however and Fisk’s have been hardly touched. His cock is pumped and pulled until the dryness becomes apparent to them both. The cool air hits his throat too _fast_  for him to put together the reason, senses dulled by arousal.

The sound of Fisk’s knees hitting the solid ground _is_ unbelievably arousing and Wesley bites his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning like a wanton piece of ass — which _obviously_  he is, or this wouldn’t be happening, he thinks. It still stands, however, they _are_  still in a building with people and he’s sure even this **dark** , disgusting side of the factory has people lurking. It’s all the more reason his cock twitches before Fisk’s lips even **near**  him. Wesley looks down unable to excuse himself from at least seeing the sight he’s imagined _once_ ~~or twice~~ on a night of drunken masturbation. He is precious and golden, his pupil’s pin pricks, his _face_  lit completely from the light above, _no more_  the brutish _hidden_  figure shadowed from Wesley’s sight. One hand rests against Wesley’s hips providing a sturdiness to his shaking thighs; the other keeps his trousers open enough that his mouth can hold the erect cock without help from his extremities.

His employer — no _his_  lover **_?_**  — laps at him with sounds of pleasure that drive him closer than any whore’s gifted fingers _ever_  could. Forget women, or men, _the shear_  beauty of this powerhouse bowing before him, sucking his cock is all he could **ever**  desire. It’s unfair to do this, to _mock_  everything that Wesley thought he knew with the simple twist of his tongue on the tip of his cock, the precum sticking to Fisk’s lip’s like gloss. It nearly wipes Wesley out when he looks upwards, mouth hanging open, a look of desperation which seems grossly apparent to Wesley’s all seeing eyes and he know’s _suddenly_ , this is not **about** a woman, or being **unappreciated**. This is Wilson hiding himself from Wesley, _avoiding_  the relationship between them — afraid to watch it suffer. This is a man who need’s **praise**  to feel correct in his actions. _Well, fuck if Wesley’s not already his foremost worshiper._

                                   ❛ Fuck, Si— You’re so good to me, yes _just_  like that, **please**. ❜   


He almost says Sir, but stops, _it seems_  too professional, too business like between them. And this, **this is personal**. Wilson’s mouth pops off his cock, the first words since this debacle began are spoken huskily. 

                                             ❛ Call me, Wilson — _say my name._  ❜   


It’s ironic and mind-numbing how many times Wesley has said the words ‘ We don’t say his name, ‘ only to have the _god_  himself begging with ecstasy ridden words for him to break their rule — to commit this cardinal sin. Wilson’s mouth hollows around him and Wesley is all but screaming his name in between every curse word he can find — in every _various_  language he knows. Cum sit’s in Wilson’s mouth, dribbling on his lips before he stands. Wesley slips slightly, dipping below his normal eye line. Wilson spits onto the floor beside them, unrefined and resolute in his ability to be unbothered by the salty mixture in his mouth. He’s against Wesley again, rutting against him like a mad dog, _excited_  beyond compare as he takes Wesley’s mouth, forcing his tongue along the creases, searching out each secret moan that he’s tried to keep hidden. Wesley wonders what comes next but _Wilsons_ already stepping away, composure quasi-restored with the exception of his flushed skin and _wildly_  askew clothing, mussed entirely by Wesley’s own uncontrollable hands.

            ❛ I **trust**  we _are_  … no longer … afflicted by these childish _notions_.   **NOW**  I understand your silence was not meant to be taken for disloyalty but dissent towards my …  lack of _attention_  towards your affections.❜

He wants to speak, to defend himself as he blatantly attempts to redress himself, the flickering florescent lights no longer casting his employed in an imposing manner but one of  _uncertainty_ , of brokenness. Wesley bites his bruised lip, aware of the _coloring_  that will litter his skin come morning. He welcomes it, as he does Fisk’s explanation. 

           ❛  You … must **UNDERSTAND**  I was _acting_  out of self preservation, I feared _my_  actions had… driven you away from me. I _can_  be a  necessitous man in regards to _you._ ❜   


Wesley breathes in, then out, flexing each muscle in his body until he’s sure that they will move him. His back is _in_  pain and he knows that he is **lucky**  to have survived the first few minutes of their encounter. **LUCKY**  that Fisk _maintained_  his anger until the **TRUTH**  found it’s way into the light. Wesley is _special_. He intends to stay that way.

         ❛ I understand, Sir. I — my immaturity, I — I only wish to remain at your side. If you please…❜   


                            ❛ Mark my words, you will never _again_  leave my side. i — you are my friend   
                                                                            **and so much more**. ❜   



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley approaches Fisk after hours.

                    ** _The third time he and Fisk touch_** they are decidedly more brave ; less inclined to hide what the other knows is desired. The night has drained them both, between the Russians and Leland’s complaining. The penthouse has barely escaped it’s infancy and yet every action taken to mature it’s aesthetic is pulled down into a pit of bad timing and despair, mauling every available opportunity. If Wesley is forced to hear one more complaint about Union Allied or the _way_ that it has been handled he is sure to **kill** someone himself. Blood has never been his forte, nor does he wish it to be. It sickens him, causes him indigestion to see the red shapeless matter pool onto the various floors of abandoned warehouses. He _enjoys_ killing ; well he enjoys _when_ threats are taken care of — how they are taken care of is of no importance to him.   


Tonight is no different. Rouge workers taking matters into their own hands, funds trickling into areas that are _wrong_. Wesley runs the various reasons behind their stupidity through his head without meaning to ; only one sticks out. They must **not** have realized the actual genius behind Leland’s gift with numbers. Take as little as you please — as carefully as you please, a dollar here, a dollar there, it doesn’t matter. Leland _will_ know  & Wesley will have you killed - by order of Fisk, of course. Betrayal is not taken lightly between the leaders of this hellish city. Madam Gao, Mr. Nobu, even the Russian brothers whom Wesley has little respect for all understand the need for respect. It is the _backbone_ of their society. Another reason that as they stand outside Fisk’s penthouse entryway he decides that he must be care of his next move.

Wesley bravely moves first, walking into the penthouse behind his employer. Expensive shoes tapping along the floor, only coming to a stop when Fisk turns on heel to stare at him questioningly. His employers fingers twitch as if in thought, oscillating at the wrist ; mind working through the possible scenario’s that might have encouraged such _actions_. His prominent brow lowers, eyes becoming hard as the flash with intent towards him, shadowed now — good, thinks Wesley, then he understands. His own body stays still, measuring up the man before him ; curiously dividing his thoughts between what he _wants_ and how much Fisk will let him take without becoming offended. He proposes silently to go halfway and see if he is met.

Two short strides forward and he is dangerously close to invading the private space his employer so desperately seeks to keep around himself. Low lit reflections from the city below dance through the glass wall that separates them from the outside and bounce around the darkened living room. The faint red glow across Fisk’s cheeks slowly fades into yellow as the neon lights change ; a dangerous tension seems to work between them until Fisk motions, minutely towards the door. 

Francis has been watching, a serious expression set in his features, expression devoid of anything that might be misconstrued as judgement. His hands are clasped together over his waist, ear piece still in place even though both men capable of ordering him are standing before him, _warring_. A nod, so enthusiastic, it is perceptible to Wesley simply through his hearing ; the fabric of Francis’ uniform makes loud, terrible noises that seem to crash against them in the silence as he steps out, door clicking deafeningly behind them. He _wants_ to escape this confrontation.

Fisk closes the distance, forehead creased with perplexing thoughts, no doubt. He does not dare gaze directly into Fisk’s eyes, somewhat afraid of exactly what he might see or _what_ Fisk might see in his own. Eye’s are the window to the soul and they are both very aware of the blackness that wraps itself around their respective aorta’s. It suffocates whatever beauty might have once bloomed in their chest cavities ; before Rigoletto, before _this_ city. The touch of his employers cool hands against his warm cheeks, sends an irreversible shiver down his spine causing his knees to feel weak. His fingertips travel so familiarly from his cheekbones to the tip of his ear, _habitually_ tucking the hair behind it so tenderly that Wesley is forced to move his gaze upwards, locking in on the hollow of Fisk’s neck.

            ❛ There are plenty of other ways to find affection, Wesley. ❜ 

He tsks, both reprimanding his assistant and questioning his motives. A snort escapes Wesley, unplanned and only just short of disrespectful. They have a unique relationship based on mutual respect and the similar desire to maintain their power over their crime ring. **THEIRS** \- Not Fisk’s alone. Wesley hums along to his own tune of self satisfaction as his employer gently continues his browsing of skin, fingertips ending their circling on his bottom lip. No, Wesley thinks, _their_ empire is something they have built together. They are mutually exclusive, one cannot have Fisk without Wesley, or Wesley without Fisk. Their arc from criminals to _KINGS_ to **GODS** is one they have explored together, up until the very end. Until Fisk’s hands had dripped with the blood of the last _crime lord_ & Wesley had so tenderly wasted another pocket square as a handkerchief, wiping up the liquid from his _friends_ skin.

           ❛ You act like you are a _means_ to an end  & not [the](https://www.tumblr.com/edit/x) **END**. ❜   


As he talks the finger caressing his lip slips between his teeth and is he careful not to bite, words lacking the same diction they normally would sans _invasion_. His motivation to continue is greatly diminished, tongue taking in the saltiness of Fisk’s skin. There is no doubt that there is some remnant of death on those powerful extremities, but he pays no heed ; even if he had, it would only serve to arouse him more. The violence is incredible to watch. A perfect storm that releases in one _uncontrollable_ burst, devastating everyone in it’s way. It’s curious the way Fisk’s magnetism flings everyone around him into the void of self-destruction ; except for Wesley. He is the eye of the storm, the calm before the deadly strike. They are _made_ for each other in this way.

Fisk let’s out a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper, an _aborted_ plea for more and Wesley doubles down on his ministrations. Grinning, though he tries to hold back his glee, as he slides down the digit, and then back off with a pop ; a smirk filters through his features  & he finally looks up at his employer. Green irises only a bare border around blown out pupils — Fisk’s own eye’s sport the same hungry expression. He has no intent to start another sexual escapade between them, though the teasing helps to ease the tension between them. They’re still standing apart, as if they are _physically_ pushed apart by some unknown field of energy, pulsating with unspoken frustration, professional facades  & something akin to a game of chicken. _**Who will give in first?** _

Wesley vibrates as he pushes forward, past his own giddy nervousness. It feels like years since their fight, since the last time they touched. It’s different this time ; emotions are calm & there is no **underlying** problem or bias between them. In fact the most pressing matter they have at this very moment is whether Fisk will deny him  & he _thinks_ that is unlikely given the way his breathe seems to hitch. Lips pull apart ; dry and chapped. They stick together as he slowly opens his them, breathe held until Wesley attaches to him. His own thin lips wet against Fisk’s. He presses in a bit more adamantly and the dam effectively breaks between them. 

It’s hard and needy, not at all comforting like the first time they had embraced or _painful_ and confusing like the last time, but it still affects him violently. The excitement causes him to shake against his employer ; fingers vibrating against the now flushed skin that his fingers can find uncovered. His face dips down, kissing Fisk’s jaw, chest physically expanding and constricting uncontrollably as he tries to desperately to swallow down the _adrenaline_ that seems to have **PUMPED** through his body so unexpectedly.

He is _not_ an innocent young man, nor is he some virgin pure, but the way this has built up between them ; unspoken to unavoidable is burning him up inside. Fisk has wrapped his arms around Wesley, pulling him flush against him, their height difference is so small it is imperceptible  & Wesley once again lets the whisper of _equals_ wash over him. No one is allowed this ; not before him and maybe never again. His hands drop, seeking out Fisk’s own, which are passive against Wesley’s actions. Letting his forearms be pulled from Wesley’s torso, hands taken in between his assistants own ; contrasted so beautifully against him. Wesley’s are long and slender, striking against his own, short and thick. Wesley brings them up to his lips, a barely noticeable kiss pressed against each knuckle until he has finished the first hand, his eyes flicking upwards, taking in Fisk’s face just one more time. 

  ❛ I will see you tomorrow, Sir. And I seek attention from **you** , because I love you & you _alone_. ❜   


There’s no reason to add on the last string of words. Incrimination is the only thing that can be taken from them but the implications need to be spoken clearly to Fisk, if only so Wesley can know _he is understood_. That his meaning is **not** lost ; that like so many before him — he does not underestimate the power of the spoken word to his employer. He lets the hand fall from his own, gently, before his smile fades. His turn is stopped before his first footstep falls, Fisk’s fingers rest on his shoulder, gaze unabashedly focused on Wesley’s flushed cheeks, eye’s still somewhat hidden behind his spectacles.

           ❛ Stay won’t you **?**  ❜ It’s soft and inviting, much like a bribe. Wesley wonders if Fisk will go on, or if he should leave well enough alone  & stop before something goes wrong.  ❛ I . . . I believe _I_ am deeply _committed_ to you. I would like to find time to properly **explore** this — if you would allow me, Wesley. ❜  


Allowances are for children thinks Wesley & he doesn’t _need_ his permission for anything, not really. His lips open slightly, eyebrow raised in an unspoken surprise. Fisk is polite at all times but this is something different, more open ; his expression is that of an open laceration. Full of pain  & scars, past mistakes etched deeply in the lines of his face. Wesley does not want to be an addition to his already overwhelming list of _injuries_ & yet he does not leave. Instead he turns back, head tipped towards Fisk in a gesture of acceptance. Allowances are for children, but what is Fisk if not the shell of a man hiding a bloodied boy underneath ** _?_**


End file.
